Tag: Short Micro Flash

About a year ago, I was at a book launch in Dublin and a card caught my eye as I was leaving. I had my newborn in the pram with me (I figured she wasn’t sleeping anyway, so she might as well come to a book launch). It was coming up to Mother’s Day, and

Surrounded by bamboo trees, Molly lounges in her stained oak rocking chair, observing her spotted male cat and wondering which Goddess showered the boy with the gift of true patience. But not the kind exhibited by humans, who simply fall into a momentary lapse of reason and stare with vacant eyes at their immediate surroundings.

Every Saturday, Luna walked to an adoption center. She put on a coat and two scarves. More often than not, she carried a piece of fruit. One Saturday, it was a peach. She rolled it between her fingers, by turns gentle, then violent. Luna needed a family. She wanted a child that wasn’t too young

Too possessive to be a friend. Demanding to the point of being an acquired taste. He calls my name and expects me to come running and even if I close my eyes and try to ignore him, I hear him and feel him. God, I hate that. He never stays in the morning. That side

Snow piles on Suki’s hakama and makes her grow heavier. Every now and then, crystal flakes will catch in her hair and pepper it white. The flakes are cold powder around her, powder and icy sludge. Suki thinks she might be falling apart. She’s not exactly sure. Sometimes, she feels put together and driven, like

About two thirds of the way through ‘The Fabric of Tombstones’ there’s a line – short and sweet though it is – that perhaps sums up what we should expect from B.F Jones’ debut flash fiction collection. ‘All these souls, here momentarily, before going there permanently, trying to get on with their lives and make

The world was ruined, but I was the only one who could see; the sky bright red, buildings burning. Streets and buildings on fire. But the world seemed normal to everybody else. Overgrown carousels with faded creatures and bumper cars mocked with the inability to move, carrying instead a ride into fear. The wind rattled

She wants out. Tells him so. He loves her too much. She belongs to him. If she leaves, he’ll track her down. Kill her. Tells her more than once. She believes him. * * * Two years of abuse. A slow ruthless awakening leaves her nights staring at the ceiling listening to his ragged breath

Spanners who say it be because of the moon are full of shite, me bye. Oh, you painted a Lon Chaney miniature when in First Year, did you? Well, whoop dee do. Ah, here, you can go and bullocks! Sure, look—John Landis and Rick Baker got the transformation mostly right and deserved that Oscar, they

“Fifty-fifty,” says the oncologist after some consideration. “Bloody hell,” says Doug, even though he’d asked. Of course he’d asked. Doug the gambler, the chancer, the fly-by-nighter. This time, more than any other, he had to know the odds. Because this time, they were his. He was the fighter in the ring facing a stone-cold ruthless